Our universe
is a series of circles. Sit in the center of a circle --a circle of friends, of
stones, of string, of light, or just the universal circle we all sit at the
center of-- and write.
"Long Haul" Darkness
Light Low
Point
Suicidal Hope Left/Right Centered Depressed Refreshed Unhappy
Beaming Angry Calmed Sadness
Joyful Agressive
Peaceful Irritated
Composed Hateful
Loving Empty
Filled Impatient Patient Unaccepted
Accepted Hidden Found Condemned Approved Guilty
Innocent Stained
Spotless Weak
Strong Troubled
Comforted Insecure Secure Stiffnecked
Surrendered Misery Bliss Enslaved
SAVIOR Six, Six, Six(18
months)
FULL CIRCLE (Thanks to my "circle
of behavioral therapists", my "prayer circle" my "viritual writing group circle" but thanks most of
all to my "SAVIOR"(the center of my circle))!
circular musing round the Bergamon
*************************************************
a circle of elegant luscious cakes faces me
in the shiny spotlighted cafe showcase
I pick a very small treat though all are
singing: try me try me try me now
like fellow walkers in the city I make believe
they are only there for my amusement
each is made lovelier by contrast
of its creamy, chocolate or cherried
neighbor
^^^^^^^^
the circle of my family has been schrunk
by mad schemes af the master race
still those of us left have more than
doubled our earthly existence
^^^^^^^^
I am kept warm by circles of poets books
artists dancers musicians dancers
breathe better in places where they
are more numerous and nourished
^^^^^^^^^^
we all sit in the middle of our circular
world which may now
due to global warming have a finite
life and so far we cannot
jump off the edges of this sphere
to alternate universes of circles
^^^^^^^^^
and there is time that round clock
of days in our small lifetime circle
^^^^^^^^^
I am too literal perhaps-- would like
sit here in my circle trusting no
one, none, blinking, scaling, sniffing, rehearsing for the last time, try
shifting this way or that and the circle moves with you, you, the god of
your own circle, representing the maker’s mirror, the broken glass, and the
smoking topaz, the soft indentations, the flowers, the fingerprints, the
blushing bud, the rope of illusion, and the written word which flows
nowhere when the Ego isn’t allowed platforms, just this old man gingerly
loving you, tenderly ignorant of what you’ve forgotten to be and at last
holding the purple light stolen from an amethyst needle I buried in the
open grave of hope which is also a circle. from Heaven willard vega san anto, tejas
to jump into your blue circle and swim
^^^^^^^^
Sue Machlin, NYC